


Midwinter Roses

by ShannaraIsles



Series: The Rose In The Crown [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Love, Married Life, New Baby, New Parents, Post-Trespasser, Sparring, We all know I'm all about fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 05:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19350676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannaraIsles/pseuds/ShannaraIsles
Summary: First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes ...





	Midwinter Roses

_Wintermarch, 9:43 Dragon_

 

Swords clashed, sending a shudder up along Alistair's arm that almost rattled his teeth. _Too tense_ , he told himself, pushing away to take better stock of his opponent.

He absently rolled the shoulder that had taken the impact, trying to convince his  taut muscles to ease themselves, willing his body into a more natural fighting stance. Across from him, he could see Fergus grinning at his retreat, rolling his eyes at the other man's obvious enjoyment of the king's distraction.

"Too much already, your majesty?" the teyrn teased him, laughter clear in his tone. "We've only been at this an hour."

Alistair's eyes narrowed, bringing his sword and shield to bear as he charged his friend across the training ground. He bent his shoulder into the barge, satisfied by the way the press of shield against shield forced Fergus to give ground a few steps before the other man could bring his own strength to bear against the driving force pushing against him. Unfortunately, he was too focused on that push, missing the way the teyrn's feet shifted until he felt the hook of one foot behind his ankle.

Pulled off-balance, he staggered, cursing, and tripped over the lowered tip of his own sword, sent sprawling onto the snow with one well-timed slap of Fergus' sword flat against his backside. Pride hurting more than his body, Alistair rolled over onto his back, wheezing slightly.

"It's been hours," he complained. "Surely it isn't supposed to take this long?"

Fergus chuckled, passing his sword into his shield hand to offer his king help in rising.

"Well, there's more than just the arrival to deal with, isn't there?" he pointed out, heaving his friend to his feet. "I shouldn't worry so much, Alistair. You're worse than Maria this afternoon."

"At least _she's_ allowed to be there," the king muttered, swiping a hand across his brow.

"Ladies only, you know that," his friend reminded him. "And it's just as well. With everything we've done today, can you imagine taking that kind of energy into that room?"

Alistair winced. He knew perfectly well why he wasn't allowed to attend the event taking place - Fabs had been _very_ clear with him. She knew her husband better than he sometimes knew himself; it seemed obvious now that she had known well in advance that he would not be able to behave himself in the circumstances.

Despite himself, he felt a familiar smile touch his face at the thought of his beautiful wife. It seemed like only yesterday that he had spoken his vows and laid the crown upon her head, and yet three years had flown by. Three very eventful years, not just for Thedas at large, but also for his small corner of it. Behind the larger issues of the elven army that appeared to be gathering out of sight, the threat of Fen'Harel, the disbanding of the Inquisition, the idiotic attempt at a civil revolt that had originated in Redcliffe, the discovery of griffins still living and being trained to Grey Warden hands ... behind all those were advances of a far more personal nature.

Demelza's success in her quest trumped it all. After years of searching, of tracking down leads and journeying into the furthest reaches of the back of beyond, his merry-tempered elven friend had stamped her way into Denerim in the dead of winter barely a year before, and delivered to him the cure she had been seeking. She had already taken it herself, and even Alistair had been able to see the changes in himself just a few days after he imbibed. The Blight was gone from his body and being, the tell-tale aches, the nightmares, the sense that his time was running out ... all gone. It had been nothing short of a miracle, and today he stood tall and strong, proud to be the King of Ferelden with many more years left to shape his country as he saw fit.

The sound of a door opening brought his head around with a snap that wrenched his neck, making his vision spin for a moment. He focused on Andra, one of Fabs' personal maids, feeling cold sweat break out over his skin, sticking his shirt to his back.

"Yes?" he asked, not waiting for her to finish her greeting and curtsy.

The elven woman bit down on a smile at his terse eagerness.

"They're ready for you, your majesty."

With a crash, Alistair dropped his sword and shield, hands moving to undo the buckles of his training leathers as long legs bore him hastily past the woman and into the palace. He paid no attention to the startled shriek of the steward he almost ran over in his haste, simply pushing his leathers into the man's hands before accelerating into a loping run, ignoring the half-hearted attempts of the nobles in the hall trying to get his attention. He burst through the double doors, tossing his gloves and mail coif onto the floor as he went, skidding around the corner and taking the stairs three at a time to the royal floor.

He was breathing hard by the time he arrived outside the Queen's chamber, pausing a moment to compose himself before raising a hand to push open the door itself. The scene he found there was almost enough to drive him to his knees.

There was Ceri and Ciara, fussing around the end of the bed, giggling quietly together in the strangely content stillness of the room. There was Maria, still growing into the beautiful young woman she would some day be, sitting on the bed itself, looking exhausted and happy. And finally, there was his beloved Fabs, sitting up in bed, flushed but smiling, and holding in her arms another small bundle from which one tiny hand flailed. She raised her eyes to her husband, speechless and unmoving in the doorway, and carefully brought one arm out from beneath the bundle to open her hand to him.

"Come, _mi amore_ ," she invited him, her voice weary but bright with the warm delight he so loved to hear from her. "Come and meet your daughter."

 _A daughter._ For a moment, Alistair stood paralyzed in the doorway, his mind grasping at the words before they could fly away. Then his body was moving, without conscious thought, lurching him across the intervening space to crash down on his knees beside the bed. Fabs laughed softly, letting her fingers comb tenderly through his hair as he dared to look on the screwed up little face peeking out of the blankets.

"She's so small," he whispered, girding himself inwardly to lift his hand and delicately touch that flailing fist with one callused finger.

And abruptly melted from the inside out, as that tiny hand wrapped tightly about his finger, holding on with far more strength than he could possibly have believed a newborn baby could muster. He heard himself let out a sound that was caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, lifting his gaze to the lovely face watching him with a familiar smile.

"She's all right, is she?" he asked, vague concern rising for a brief moment, quashed when Fabs nodded in answer.

"Amara has checked her over," she promised her husband, the rich sweetness of the Antivan accent he had grown to prefer to any other female voice soothing the last prickles of his concern. "There is no Blight in her, Alistair. She is as you see."

"And you?"

Again, her smile was all he needed to feel relief coursing through his veins. It had been a long day, filled with black thoughts and worries alleviated only when Fergus provided him with distractions. Even with a mage healer on hand - and he would have to find some way to personally thank Amara for her work today - there were so many ways the birthing bed could become a deathbed, for the mother or the child. But not today. Today they had both come through hale and well, and he thanked the Maker for it.

He rose shakily onto his feet, easing down onto the bed beside her, only just aware that he was now the only visitor in the room. The ladies must have left to give them some privacy, he realized, determining to set time aside after dinner to spend some time with Maria after the events of the day. One arm curled automatically about his beautiful wife, tucking her close beneath his shoulder as he kissed her brow.

"I love you," he whispered, never tired of saying those words.

"As I love you, _mi amore_ ," she promised him in return, nestling close as they both turned their eyes to the wriggling infant in her arms.

"I can't believe she's here," Alistair said, keeping his voice low as though any untoward sound might rip his daughter from existence before his eyes. "What shall we call her?"

"I would like to give her a name that connects her to her family, _our_ family," Fabs murmured, her head tipping comfortably onto his shoulder. "We never really thought of names for girls."

He heard the faint sense of failure in her voice, his arm tightening about her shoulders in response. They both knew there would be some voices raised in disappointment that the king's firstborn was not a male, but Alistair did not give two hoots for those voices.

"She's perfect," he told his wife firmly. "Let the idiots complain if they dare. You are the queen, you are my wife, and you are a wonderful mother. And if, for some reason, we aren't blessed with sons, I'll change the bloody constitution if I have to."

He felt Fabs relax under his arm, glad she trusted him to believe what he said. And he meant it. If they had no sons, he would change the constitution that stated only a man could rule unmarried. His daughter was not going to be pushed aside or forced to wed just because of a stupid _law_.

"I was wondering, though," he ventured, softening his voice once again. "Could we ... I mean, she's your daughter too, but ... could we maybe give her Dem's name in the middle there somewhere? Royal babies have lots of names, so I hear. _Fabs_."

Her nickname on his tongue at that point made her laugh - that first, fumbling attempt at speaking all her names distilled down into a single nickname that now she was known as across Ferelden. Everyone in Denerim seemed to have known her as Fabs before learning she was actually Felicita, and _Queen Fabs_ had stuck in a big way. But still, she loved to hear it most from her husband's mouth.

"Yes, of course," she agreed with a nod. "I had thought as much. But ... I would like to suggest Cailynn, for your brother. Demelza, for our friend. And Mariah, for her sister."

"Cailynn?"

Alistair blinked, surprised and yet strangely touched by this nod to the brother he had only known from a distance. His last memory of Cailan had been his brother's funeral pyre, of watching the flames take the befouled corpse and cleanse the defilement the darkspawn had enacted upon it. Yet, for all his lack of common sense when it came to battle strategy, Cailan had been a popular king, and he had been mourned sincerely by the people. _Alistair_ had mourned for him, for the brother he had never been allowed to know. This was a good way to honor the man, and the good memory he had left with those he had left behind.

"Cailynn Demelza Mariah," he repeated, looking down at the baby girl who still held his finger in her grip. "What do you think, hmm? A pretty name for a pretty princess?"

The closed eyes blinked open, newborn blues gazing up at him with an adorable lack of focus, and Alistair felt something in his heart snap. She was beautiful, as beautiful as the woman he loved, and he didn't care that his firstborn was a girl. She was _his_ , and he was _hers_. Unconsciously, his arms tightened about both of them, holding his wife and daughter close as a slow tear trickled down his cheek.

"I swear to Andraste I will never let anyone or anything hurt you," he promised, his voice hoarse through his whisper. "Either of you. I love you, so much."

Fabs' hand rose, gently stroking his cheek as he kissed her palm.

"We love you," she answered in a tender tone. _"Te amo, papi."_

_Father._

He was a father. He had a _daughter_ , a beautiful little bundle who would grow up knowing she was loved and wanted. He would not be the father Maric had been, nor the guardian Eamon had been. Alistair's children would never know what it was to be unwanted. 

He looked down at the sleeping face, easing his finger free to stroke the pad tenderly against one round cheek. 

_This, I swear._


End file.
